Count to 100
by kikaikitai
Summary: Bill hasn't visited his dreams in weeks. Ford is desperate and comes to realize the nature of his devotion to the muse. And how much he loves hearing praise.
A/N: First attempt at nachosixer filth, won't be the last.

Inspired by NSFW fanart of Ford fapping to Bill's praise by tumblr users sinfiles and fiddlefuckmcsuckit.

* * *

If Ford thought the giddiness of chasing strange things around Gravity Falls was the best he'd felt in years, it was nothing compared to what he felt when Bill came into the picture.

He was alive.

Each night, his heart skipped knowing soon he would be working with a muse—a god! Who had chosen him, Stanford Filbrick Pines! Who adored his brilliant mind and who was equally profound. He was full of energy and his appetite for knowledge was insatiable.

Ford had never had such a friend. Someone he could talk to for hours on end without boring them. Someone who truly appreciated him. His efforts, his achievements, his mind.

Bedtime was more exciting to him than his hands-on work. He found himself eagerly brushing his teeth and settling under the covers like a child waiting for Santa to come, and even began doing yoga and drinking strong herbal teas in the hopes that he would fall asleep sooner.

One night, without warning, it stopped.

Ford had taken an extra long shower to relax his muscles and help him get to sleep, trying to decide what he would talk to Bill about first.

Inhale. Om Agasti Shahina. Exhale. Sound is power. Breathe like the ocean's crashing waves. Let them pull you into a deep sleep. Count to one-hundred and back down again. He knew all the tricks.

He drifted into an easy slumber, and... nothing. He awoke at sunrise with a sore back, and no memory of having been visited.

He tried to tell himself it was nothing to mind. Bill was busy. That was all. That didn't make the day go by any faster. Stanford found himself constantly looking at the clock, wrestling with the idea of taking a nap just to try again.

Finally he gave in and practically bodyslammed the couch, wrapped in a thick quilt.

But it was no use. He awoke past sundown drenched in sweat and with a mean headache.

Where was Bill?

Each day that went by made Ford feel worse. After a week he couldn't focus, and found it took him long to get out of bed in the mornings, frozen in place by the turbulance in his spirit.

Naturally, his thoughts started with the worst possible reasons.

Bill is bored of you.

Bill found someone smarter.

Bill got into trouble.

Bill is dead.

Bill isn't real and you need serious professional help.

At the two week mark, he was scribbling on papers frantically, reciting the incantation he knew by heart until he was out of breath. This was, of course, after telling Fiddleford they both needed some time off.

After three weeks of silence, the abandonment was too much. He drove into town for the largest bottle of bourbon he could find. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a drink. It burned on the way down and before long he was tearing the papers he'd so longingly covered in small triangles.

 _"Bill!"_ he shouted into the air. "At least give me some kind of sign you're still here, damn it!"

He held his breath, waiting for something. Anything.

After a drawn out silence he took a wobbly step back and fell back into the couch, head of messy hair in his hands.

"Come back," he said in a low whisper. "Please. Don't leave me."

Ford lowered onto his back, taking his glasses off to rub the prickling feeling in his eyes away. His body felt so heavy, defenses low from emotional exhaustion, sluggish from lonely and desperate drinking.

He didn't want to get up. He wanted to just lie there and go to sleep and never wake up again if it meant he could see his muse one more time.

It had to be real. He'd been meeting with him for so long now. It simply could not _be_ that there was nothing there at all.

 _"Hiya, smart guy!"_ was the first thing Bill had said to him. Thinking about his praises had made Ford's face warm with a dumb smile during his waking hours. Once or twice Fiddleford had caught him with that look on his face, and didn't bother asking.

Even now, despondent and drunk, having had no contact for weeks... he felt fuzzy just thinking about Bill's words.

 _"Hey, genius. Nice job tonight!"_

Ford snorted at himself, throwing an arm over his eyes.

 _"Wow, nice equation ya got there! Take me through it, I wanna know how that beautiful mind of yours works."_

His legs tingled. Surely it was the bourbon.

 _"You're special, Stanford. You know that, don't you?"_

The moment he felt a twitch against his leg, he removed his arm to stare at the ceiling, eyes slightly widened.

There was only a second of clarity where he acknowledged that he had gotten hard thinking about his muse's adoration for him, and soon his twelve fingers were scrabbling to get rid of his belt. As soon as he was able, he shoved a hand into his pants but stopped just before pulling himself out.

It... _had_ been some time since he relieved himself. With all of the work he was doing, it hadn't really been on his mind. Boners went ignored in favor of science. Perhaps this would help him relax.

Yes, that was his rationalization. This was a health matter.

He shifted, and held his breath as he was exposed to the cool air. Even without his glasses he could see how aroused he was.

How long _had_ it been? He could barely hold his erection without making himself squeak.

Ford watched himself as he stroked up and down. He was swollen and sensitive, needing like he'd never needed before.

Alright. He was doing this. As much as it embarrassed him, he spat into his hand and settled back onto the couch, covering his eyes shamefully with his arm once more.

He had to hold his breath on and off to keep quiet even though he was completely alone. Even hearing the sounds his slick flesh made him flush more.

There was no use fighting the desire to play back Bill's voice in his mind.

 _Smart guy._

Ford pumped and pumped.

 _Genius._

He thought of glowing gold. Chess games. The kind way Bill would correct his equations.

 _IQ._

He was moaning now.

 _Brainiac._

"Ah, Bill..." There was no returning.

 _Smart guy. Genius. IQ. Brainiac._

"Bill, please..."

 _You're special, Stanford._

Hips shook as they thrusted up into his palm.

 _You know that, don't you?_

Everything seized and Ford didn't know how many times he cried his muse's name as he came. By the end of it his eyes were wet and his legs trembled like jello. Even his stomach twitched from the aftershocks.

It took him a solid couple of minutes to climb out of the haze.

Luckily for him, he was too drunk and too spent to be able to think about what he'd just done and who he'd thought about while doing it.

Sleep found him with no mantra or breathing exercises.

The next thing he became aware of was the feeling of warmth. It was like he was being enveloped by a pleasant, affectionate static.

"Hey, kiddo. Sorry about that. I had some stuff to take care of on the other side."

Ford smiled dumbly into the warm buzz, humming a lazy response before his brain caught up with him. His eyes snapped open and he stumbled backwards in the glittery space around them.

Bill was a gentleman of course, and caught him before he fell with long arms. He gently placed him upright.

Even in the Dreamscape, Ford felt his entire face burn.

"B-Bill, I—"

He couldn't even look into that eye and felt like his mouth was locking up.

"I—"

Did he know? Did he see him doing that? Oh, God, please don't let him think he's some kind of—some kind of—

"You missed me! I know!" Bill exclaimed with his usual shrill excitement, floating forward to playfully tousle Ford's hair.

The flustered man could barely respond, stuck between a hundred things to say that wouldn't condemn him.

Just when he felt like he would die from humiliation, he felt something tug on him. Upon peering down he found two small black hands holding onto his six-fingered one.

Bill's eyelashes tickled Ford's wrist and his brain may as well have crashed like a strained computer.

"I missed you too, Sixer."


End file.
